Adagio
by Katja1
Summary: Sometimes the thrill of winning the game gets the best of him. S/I.


Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine.  
  
"He knows," she whispers, and he tries not to be affected by the vibration of her lips against his ear.   
  
"Did he say something?" he asks calmly, clutching what's left of his cool with both hands.  
  
"No," she admits. "But I can tell." She turns, her back to him now, to glance across the room. But he isn't looking in their direction; he's absorbed in something on the monitor.  
  
"I don't think he's boiling over about it," he observes. She is not amused, but he cracks a small smile anyway.   
  
"It's very important that he doesn't find out." She rakes the words over barbed wire. "If he finds out--"  
  
"I know," he reminds her. I know, because I'm not a child, and I can remember what you told me yesterday.  
  
And he knows what she's waiting for; he knows what he must suggest, or else be commanded. She's giving him this opportunity to preserve his dignity, recognizing a kindred spirit and offering a rare moment of mercy.  
  
But when he opens his mouth again to speak, he finds that she is coming closer, not moving away.   
  
So he doesn't say anything more.  
  
* * *  
  
"I think we should stop," she says, her back turned to him. They aren't touching, but he can feel the weight of her body on the mattress beside him. It's comforting, in a small way.  
  
"Yes."  
  
There is a long silence. She hadn't expected him to agree. He counts this as a victory, and allows the edges of his mouth to curl.   
  
"It was a diversion," she says.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But continuing like this would be foolish."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Another silence.  
  
"Are you just going to agree with everything I say?"  
  
"If I say yes..." He's uncomfortable making a joke, so he whispers it against her back instead, and the gamble pays off: she actually laughs, and he tries to burn the moment into his memory.  
  
When she stops, she says, "I'm serious."  
  
"I know."  
  
She rolls over, faces him. "But maybe not tonight."  
  
She doesn't say anything more.  
  
* * *  
  
He can't stop the question from repeating in his head like the chorus to a song to which he's forgotten the rest of the lyrics.  
  
They're alone, in the car, and it's only a brief window of time. He's tempted not to spoil it, but for him such restraint would be unusual. "Do you still love him?"  
  
He looks over at her as he asks; she stares straight ahead, but when the question is finished she flinches like she's been hit.  
  
"That's not fair and you know it," she says quietly.  
  
He swallows an apology, because that's not the way this works. He is not upset, or angry, or worried. And what he's feeling isn't jealousy, because he doesn't care enough for that. This is just a way to relieve certain tensions. This seemed like a good idea at the time. It was stupid. He isn't jealous. He doesn't care.  
  
"You can't ask me that."  
  
And he isn't taking some small sadistic delight in throwing her off-balance. He isn't chalking this up as another tiny victory.  
  
"Why do you want to know?"  
  
"You're right. I don't."  
  
And they don't say anything more.  
  
* * *  
  
Later, when he thinks about the dissolution of their unofficial partnership, he can see how it all unfolded slowly until it was gradually just gone. And he could feel it happening, but it wasn't in his power to stop it, and maybe it wasn't worth holding onto anyway.  
  
And now things are exactly the way they were before.  
  
Except that he knows the location of every scar on her skin, and she knows too much about him to buy his arrogance now. But no one else can read them the way they read each other, so they're safe.  
  
And when Sloane has to ask a question twice before getting an answer, he looks like he's about to say something, but he doesn't.  
  
That never happens again.  
  
* * *  
  
"You screwed up," she accuses.  
  
He doesn't respond. She tries again.  
  
"Your carelessness could have--"  
  
"Yes, I know," he says.  
  
She pauses, and he can tell she's thinking this game's less fun when the prey plays possum instead of fighting back. Another tiny win, even though that's not the game they're playing now.  
  
"I warned you this would happen."  
  
"Nothing has happened. It was a stupid mistake."  
  
"Was it a mistake?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I don't believe that."  
  
Silence.  
  
"A long time ago," she says, "you asked me a difficult question, one I couldn't answer."   
  
He keeps his stare even.  
  
"Now it's my turn." She is able to keep the smile off her lips. "You nearly got yourself killed. Why?"  
  
"Stupid mistake," he shrugs. It certainly wasn't for you. The return of his coldness is a relief, and he embraces the feeling as it rises inside.  
  
"Lie."   
  
Silence.  
  
"Sometimes," she says, more gently now, "we ask questions that can't be answered."  
  
After a moment, he replies, but the calculated pause comes too late; his facade is already breaking down. "Yes."  
  
"And sometimes," she continues, "we ask questions even when we already know the answers."   
  
Her fingernails are tracing a familiar path across his skin. He tries not to flinch at her touch.  
  
"Sometimes, we think we know the answers... but we're wrong." She withdraws. "Am I?"  
  
It's a long time before he responds, but when he does, he almost feels as calm as ever, except for the increasing speed of his pulse. "Yes."  
  
He doesn't know what he expected. Did he expect her to fight? Maybe he only hoped she would. Instead he is forced to settle for the memory of her expression after the delivery of the final blow.  
  
"Okay," she whispers, more to herself than to him. She turns to leave and does not look back when she says: "So were you."  
  
And he knew she would say that, and he knew it would be a lie, but he does not challenge her. She is already gone. 


End file.
